She lifts her gaze to mine. “You’re making me tingle.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Her lips curve up a little. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, you have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
I think about getting on my knees and burying my mouth between her legs, and I’m instantly hard. “Fuck.”
Her eyes glow.
I study her lips, and imagine pressing mine to them, sliding my tongue against hers. I want to do it more than anything… but I shouldn’t.
We sit there in the semi-darkness, with the movie playing softly in the background. Its light falls gently upon us,highlighting her cheekbones, the golden tones in her red hair, the gleam of her soft skin.
“We shouldn’t,” I say helplessly.
“Why not? We’re engaged.” Her eyes dance.
I cup her face, stroking my thumb across her cheek. “You’ve had a terrible shock today. You’re looking for comfort, and that’s understandable and not a problem. But I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret it.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” She rests a hand on my chest. “This hasn’t just happened today. My feelings for you have been like a long train journey with lots of stops. This is just the last station on the line.”
She’s right. The journey began many years ago, when we were kids, and innocent of the complications that adulthood relationships would bring. Back then, we loved each other as friends, a wholehearted, gentle, deep love that I don’t think has ever gone away. Instead of disappearing with the years, it remained like a plant in the ground that has suddenly seen sunlight and broken through the surface. Or maybe it’s more like a volcano that’s lain dormant all these years, and now it’s leapt into life, bursting with heat.
Was it always going to end here one day?
I think about when we texted one another, our sexual tension spilling out of us like lava. Then, the thought of being able to do things to her for real was what tipped me over the edge. I wanted her then, and I want her now.
“I don’t want to lose your friendship,” I say desperately, looking at her soft, plump lips.
“Then don’t,” she says simply, and smiles.
She’s implying that we’re in control of our feelings and actions. I think she’s partly right. Choices appear in front of us,like junctions in the train journey she mentioned, and we are in control of which line we choose. Except that sometimes our feelings make everything except one track feel impossible.
She looks calm, but her eyes are gleaming in the light from the TV. Excitement makes them sparkle. She wants me.
How am I supposed to say no when her hand is creeping down to the hem of my tee and sliding beneath it? When her lips part as she slips her fingers onto my skin? When her teeth tug her bottom lip as she moves her hand up to brush across my nipples?
I shift on the sofa, turning a little toward her, and then lift her legs so they’re across my lap. She inhales, her eyes widening, and makes herself comfortable in my arms.
Then she lifts her face, and I lower my lips to hers.
We kiss for ages. Soft kisses. Lazy kisses. Exploring every millimeter of each other’s lips and faces.
I press my lips to her cheeks, her temples. Across her brows and forehead. Down her nose. Back to her mouth.
Slowly, I kiss from one corner up over her Cupid’s bow to the other corner, then return to the center of her lips.